


Don't Worry

by TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite



Series: Request Fills [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Injured!Reader, M/M, Reader-Insert, male!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite/pseuds/TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite
Summary: The reader gets hurt during a hunt but only tells Sam because he doesn’t want Dean to worry





	Don't Worry

“I hate ghosts,” you grumble, leaning against the side of the impala. You’re aching all over, but your ribs in particular are throbbing and you’re pretty sure at least one is broken.

Dean joins you, looping an arm around your waist and kissing your pout. “Well, the ghost is all gone now.”

You playfully shove him away. “I’m filthy, Dean.”

“Yeah, but you look good filthy,” he teases.

“While that may be true, I’m sure I’ll look better after a shower.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to pout.

“Get a room, you two,” Sam says, slamming the trunk of the impala shut.

“We have one. Unfortunately, we have to share with you,” you point out. “So you’re gonna have to deal.”

Sam makes a face, circling around you to climb into the passenger seat.

“We should head out,” you tell Dean when Sam’s door is shut.

He kisses you again. “Fine.”

Like the gentleman he is, Dean opens your door for you. you fold yourself into the backseat, wincing when the movement makes your ribs flare up.

“You okay?” Dean asks, concerned.

“Yeah, just sore. Nothing a hot shower won’t help,” you lie.

* * *

By the time Dean pulls into the motel parking lot, you’re one hundred percent sure your rib is not okay. You do your best to hide the pain, knowing if you tell Dean then he’ll worry more about you than himself and honestly you’re fine. You can handle a broken rib on your own- you’ve handled worse on your own. But Dean has a habit of forgetting to take care of himself when you’re hurt.

“I call first shower,” you say as soon as you enter the room.

“Want company?” Dean asks playfully.

“Down, boy. Not tonight. I just want to clean up and sleep.”

You lock the bathroom door, ensuring that Dean can’t follow, though you’re pretty sure he won’t. Dean does his best to respect your wishes. You grit your teeth as you take your t-shirt off, wishing you’d gone with a flannel button-down like the boys. Oh well. Hindsight is 20-20.

You shower quickly and dress for bed, putting on a t-shirt to cover the bruise that’s forming. Dean takes the shower, leaving you along with Sam.

“Will you take a look at my ribs?” you ask him, sitting on the end of the bed.

“That why you didn’t want Dean to shower with you?” he asks, joining you.

“Maybe.” You lift your shirt so he can see the bruise.

“He’s gonna find out.” Sam carefully presses around the edges.

“No, he won’t.”

“Yeah, he will. Looks like it’s a fracture and it’s only one rib. Take it easy for the next week or so and it should heal up fine. You’re not going to be able to keep that from Dean that long.”

“Watch me.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push. He knows how stubborn you can be.

Dean emerges from the bathroom as you’re making yourself comfortable in bed. He crawls under the covers and tucks you against his side. He’d never admit it, but he’s a cuddler. You’ll keep his secret as long as he only cuddles you.

* * *

You’re woken the next morning by soft lips on your jaw.

“Dean,” you mumble sleepily, throwing an arm over your eyes even as your other hand curls around the back of his neck.

“’Morning, handsome,” he coos.

“Sam-”

“-is getting breakfast. I told him to take his time. We’ve got a good half hour at least.”

“Oh, good. Don’t want to scar your brother for life.”

“Yeah, can we stop talking about my brother?”

You laugh and tug Dean up into a slow kiss. He wriggles around until he’s straddling your hips, the bulge in his boxers rubbing against your own. He grinds down, drawing a soft moan from you. You let your fingers play along his hips, teasing under the edge of his shirt for a moment before tugging it up and over his head.

Dean tosses his shirt aside, sitting up. He smirks down at you, shifting so he’s between your thighs instead of on top of them. You hook your legs over his hips, grabbing onto his shoulders as his arms loop around your waist. He tugs you up into his lap and you immediately regret it.

“Shit, ow,” you hiss, one hand flying instinctively to your side.

“Y/N?” Dean says, concern written all over his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just stretched wrong,” you tell him.

“Y/N.” He fixes you with a stern look. “I know you got hurt last night while we were fighting that ghost, but I let you handle it on your own. Clearly it’s worse than I thought. Let me see.”

“It’s not a big deal, Dean,” you insist.

“If it’s not a big deal, why are you so determined to hide it?”

You duck your head down against his shoulder. “Don’t want you to worry.”

“Too late for that, sweetheart. Come on, show me.”

Dean slides you off his lap and takes the hem of your shirt in his hands, looking at you expectantly. You nod, and he pulls it up and off.

“Ow,” he says in sympathy, fingers brushing over the ugly bruise. He presses gently, apologizing when you wince. “It’s only a fracture, which is good. Could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, that’s what Sam said.”

Dean pouts. “You told Sam, but not me?”

“Didn’t want you to worry,” you repeat.

He sighs and pulls you into his embrace. “I know, but I always worry. That’s what I do. Next time, just tell me and I’ll worry less.”

“Okay,” you murmur into his collarbone.

“Come on, let’s enjoy our alone time before Sam gets back. Do you want some ice for your rib?”

You lay down. “That would be nice, yeah.”

“Alright. I’ll be back.”

Dean gets up and vanishes from sight. You hear him rummaging in the mini fridge a moment before he returns with one of the medical gel cool pack things the boys have collected over the years. He spoons up behind you and holds the towel-wrapped pack to your bruise.

“Thanks, Dean,” you say, covering his hand with your own.

“Anything for you.”

Now to wait for Sam’s inevitable “I told you so.”


End file.
